Carmen Murguia
I’m currently sitting at La Finca Coffeehouse in St. Francis, surrounded by a friendly, Latin vibe and new paintings by Milwaukee’s own Celeste Contreras gracing the walls. From the speakers in the background, Chavela Vargas—the legendary lesbian from Mexico—croons “Paloma Negra.” I feel like I’m right at home. And so, I begin to write…
When I was coming up, the meaning of family, or familia in Spanish, meant one thing: blood. Familia was comprised of your brothers and sisters, your parents, your cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, comrades and compadres and the lineage that kept you all together traced back to your homeland. According to society and my own relatives, everybody else who entered our world was an acquaintance or a friend, perhaps a neighbor, or somebody we worked with, prayed with, celebrated holidays with, or went to school with—and that’s it.
The only exception was when we became a temporary foster family home. Then, for a week to three months, I had extended family that’d include children who were taken out of bad situations and placed with us as their temporary sisters and brothers. Basically, everybody was welcome, yet everybody had their “place.” At least, that’s how I saw it. Being lesbian, feeling different, growing up the middle child—this meant I was constantly wondering what my “place” was in our family. In fact, I couldn’t wait to grow up and one day create my own familia from scratch, have my own traditions, my own lady, my own kids—damn, even my own station wagon! Little did I know it would unfold flawlessly and uniquely, that I would find it both inside and outside Milwaukee, or that I’d eventually circle back to this place on Seventh and Mitchell Street, Sherman Park, and Avondale Boulevard.
Decembers were a defining moment in our Mexican American household, which included my parents and my tía (aunt). Decembers meant everybody would go pick out a real tree outdoor with papi (dad), pick up a pizza at Maria’s and decorate with holiday music playing on the stereo while mom baked Christmas cookies for us to enjoy. Decembers meant getting dressed up, pack up in the station wagon and driving through the snow to the Mexican church on Fourth and Virginia to celebrate the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Decembers meant all of us participating in the traditional tamale-making assembly line from Friday night until we could finally taste them on Sunday morning.
Decembers, believe it or not, would also feel lonely for me, like something was missing and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I would wait for everyone in my family to go to sleep and I would put on my Carpenter’s Christmas album, sit facing the beautiful balsam lit with big colorful old school bulbs and quietly cry, wondering about life and where I belonged. I would later learn as a teenager that Karen Carpenter was depressed and eventually took her own life, and I often wondered if that’s why I connected so deeply to her voice and music.
When I moved to Minneapolis, I discovered my very own December traditions. Decembers now meant George Winston playing on Billy and Romero’s Bose system while they cooked and we all decorated with snow falling softly outside their brownstone. Decembers meant going to see The Sounds of Blackness sing their original song, “Optimistic,” and watch my friend Dennis Spears of Moore By Four sing gospel at a holiday concert inside a church in Edina. Decembers meant taking my date for a long walk in the snow, hand in hand beneath the stars at night along Lake Calhoun where we could see our breath after each kiss and make love inside the warm Victorian I called home, just up the stairs from the beach.
When I returned to Milwaukee, I moved back to my parents for a short time until I got clean and sober. Eventually, I moved out on my own in Milwaukee, and slowly began to create familia with lovers, with friends, with people in my poetry and writing groups, my Latino community and AA circles, and especially in my LGBTQ community—whether at the gay bars or the Galano Club, Pride festivals and Lavender Hill parties. Familia for me was now defined as “everywhere I was, my family was too.” That loneliness is lifted. The “place” I spoke of earlier, that I was desperately trying to find, is within me. We can have it all. We get to have it all.
December has new meaning for me each year, and this one is no exception. Papi is gone and so is my brother David, so I visit their graves on my way to or from tía’s, who is now in her early 90s and in a nursing home. December is keeping my 89-year-old mother comfortable and happy as we watch old movies together. It is twin sisters, brothers-in-law and great nieces, my younger brother, a Manhattanite who’ll be back for Christmas, my cousin Lola and her man James who live in the house beneath mine on a tree-lined street in Sherman Park. I’ve got my silver tree all lit up, I know where to find delicious tamales, Jamin’s white elephant party, and Big Mike and Adam’s birthdays are around the corner. I know there’s a lovely lady out there just for me. And, you know what? I like it like that!
